The Night Visitor (11 page)

To the north, the land rose gradually to a spiny ridge crowned with a long row of tall, gaunt pines. The trees reminded Horace of something from an old movie. War-painted Indians all lined up on the hill—ready to slaughter the paleface intruders. And he was the paleface intruder. On the gentler portion of the incline and among a sparse assembly of bushy piñon and dark green juniper, an assortment of small cabins was assembled in an unlikely suburb to the ranch headquarters. Horace ambled along a neat graveled path toward the log structures, evidently meant to house the paying guests. The cabins had names instead of numbers; these had been burned into rough pine planks with a rustler's branding iron and nailed over the doors. Horace read them and snorted with a typical tourist's derision at things meant for tourists. Black Bart. Jesse James. Wyatt Earp. Doc Holliday. O-K Corral. Dodge City. Winchester. Colt .45. At one, he stopped and shuddered. Tombstone. For gosh sakes. Who'd sleep easy with
that
plank hangin' over his head? This McFain fella didn't have much of a business sense.

There was an aged Chevy pickup parked beside Winchester. Pretty battered-looking for a tourist who could afford the likes of this place. Most likely, it belonged to somebody who worked here. Like a caretaker. A dusty green Land Rover was
parked between Calamity Jane and Geronimo. Horace guessed that would be where those bone-diggin' scientists were bunked. The old goggle-eyed man and his good-looking daughter.

A form seemed to materialize behind the visitor, who didn't notice. To make his presence known, the silent man scuffed his boots.

Horace turned to see a lanky, rawboned man who'd evidently just come around Winchester's stone chimney. His sunburned face was framed in a tangle of yellow hair. A delicate, almost girlish nose was set between pale blue eyes. He was dressed in loose-fitting denim trousers, a ragged-looking gray overcoat that hung to his knees, and scuffed boots encrusted with a mixture of dried mud and manure. He gave the intruder a questioning look, but said nothing.

Horace nodded amiably. “I'm here to see Mr. McFain.”

The gaunt man touched his mouth, then his ear.

“What is it,” Flye asked, “you cain't talk nor hear?”

The man responded with a nod. He fished a small, spiral-bound notebook from his coat pocket. And penciled in a comment, which he displayed to the visitor.

I CANT TALK BUT I CAN READ
YOUR LIPS IF YOU TALK SLOW

“I'm here on business,” Flye said loudly. “You McFain's top hand?”

The deaf man grinned crookedly, exposing an irregular row of yellowed teeth. He scribbled again.

IM HIS ONLY HAND

More hurried scribbling.

NAMES JIMSON BEUGMANN

“I'm Horace Flye.” The newcomer offered his hand, which was accepted. Flye indicated the ranch with a sweep of his three-fingered left hand. “Nice place Mr. McFain has here.”

Jimson licked chapped lips and grinned. This one had the hungry look if he'd ever seen it. He scribbled on his pad.

BOSS KNOW YOUR COMIN

“No, he don't. But I expect he'll be glad to see me. Could you tell me where to find Mr. McFain?”

The ranch hand hesitated, then wrote on the pad.

ACROST THE PASTURE BEHIND THE BARN
THERES A BIG TENT

Jimson Beugmann nodded to indicate the general direction.

Horace smiled to show his appreciation. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

Feeling the ranch hand's eyes on his back, Horace Flye stopped at the corral fence to speak with a natural affection to the half dozen horses who eyed him with uneasy equine curiosity, then turned away to nibble at a bale of alfalfa hay. There was a bulldozer parked behind the barn, next to a small dug-pond that wasn't finished yet. Two hundred yards away, beyond the pasture, Flye saw a rolling clump of woolly-looking hills, like fat sheep gathered close to share warmth. As soon as he passed by the 'dozer, he spotted the peaks of a long, camouflaged tent—U.S. Army surplus, he guessed. It was pitched within a yard of the far fence, and seemed quite out of place below the brow of a crumbling sandstone bluff. Like a circus had got stranded out here in the middle of noplace. As he trudged across the pasture, Horace made it his business to notice small things. Like the fact that the temporary shelter had been rigged for electricity. A heavy black umbilical cord snaked under the skirt of the tent. The outside end was connected to a gray breaker panel mounted on a stout new post. Another black cable arced upward from the panel to a newly set electric pole, where a cylindrical transformer hummed its monotonous dirge.

The canvas shelter had a flap for a door; he pushed this aside and made a quiet entrance.

A half dozen small electric heaters made the place tolerably comfortable, if not actually warm. Horace Flye saw three people in the long tent, which was lighted by a long string of one-hundred-watt bulbs. A tall utility lamp with three powerful floodlights stood at the edge of a rectangular excavation, where a woman was hard at work. Delia Silver—her whole attention focused on the delicate task—was using a dental pick to pry tiny clay-encrusted pebbles away from an arch of fossilized rib bone. The archaeologist was not aware that a stranger had entered the tent. Neither was her father, nor Nathan McFain. The men, sitting on opposite sides of a card table, were engaged in a tense conversation.

Horace Flye—aware that he had not yet been noticed—thought it best to stand by quietly. And watch. And listen. Maybe learn something useful.

The aging paleontologist was sitting at a folding card table across from the rancher, gesticulating with his liver-spotted hands, attempting to explain the facts of life. First, that Mr. McFain shouldn't make any big plans about a permanent display. True, there was a skull, at least one tusk, and a few ribs—but there might not be much more. You could never tell what you'd find—not until the excavation was completed. Because Mr. McFain intended to retain possession of the fossil specimens, the university museum would not provide any funds for the excavation. And there was a very considerable amount of work to do. Mr. McFain would have to hire some workers. And not just any workers, mind you, but skilled technicians—people with experience in paleontological or archeological excavations. The best approach, Moses pointed out, was to bring in a half dozen graduate students from the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic. He could personally recommend several promising candidates. The students would, of course, expect modest stipends. And the rancher must provide them with food and shelter. Furthermore, the university would expect some level of insurance coverage from Mr. McFain. In case of an accident resulting from injury on the job. A portable toilet must be placed near the excavation, and safety was a prime consideration. OSHA rules, and all that.

The rancher was shaking his head in disbelief. How much would all this cost?

Oh, one couldn't say with any certainty. Altogether, probably no more than a hundred thousand. Per year, of course. And the excavation might take three or four years to complete. Depended upon a number of as yet unknown factors.

Nathan McFain—whose pulse was throbbing dangerously in his temples—glared at the scientist through bloodshot eyes and had his say. He was not a wealthy man, not by any means. And even if he was, he damn sure wouldn't want a bunch of college kids living at his ranch. They'd be partying late at night, making all kinds of noise. He had assumed that the Silvers—the daughter was young and strong enough—would be able to handle the excavation by themselves. What was the big deal, moving a few yards of rock and dirt?

Moses Silver—the very picture of a scholar wearied by a fruitless attempt to communicate with a complete nincompoop—leaned back and rolled his eyes in utter dismay.

The practiced gesture had its intended effect on the rancher.

Nathan McFain was a practical man of business, who knew when compromise was called for. “Okay, okay,” he said with an air of one defeated, “I'll hire one hand for you. That's it. Just one. And I'll pay minimum wage for eight hours a day. But no benefits.” He slammed his palm on the card table to punctuate this final offer. Actually, his backup position was two hired hands. Or… if the old egghead was really stubborn, maybe three.

Moses Silver launched into an explanation of the delicacy of such an excavation. One could not just hire some untutored yokel who knew how to swing a pick and fling precious fossil fragments here and there. One must hire careful workers who had relevant experience …

It was at this moment that the rancher noticed the intruder. Nathan McFain, without getting to his feet, scanned the newcomer from forehead to boot. “So who're you?”

“Horace Flye's the name.” The Arkansas man stepped forward and offered the rancher his hand, which was accepted somewhat grudgingly. “You're Mr. McFain.”

“I already knew that,” the sullen man mumbled through his tobacco-stained beard.

Flye swallowed a friendly smile. This old fella was a sure-enough hard case.

Delia Silver—pretending to be uninterested in the conversation—had barely glanced over her shoulder at the newcomer. But she pricked her ears for every word.

Flye nodded respectfully at the elderly, bespectacled man. “And I know who you are. You're Professor Moses Silver.” Horace was careful to mimic the librarian's pronunciation.

The paleontologist, though mildly displeased with this interruption, was a gentleman. And pleased to be recognized. Moses got to his feet and shook Flye's outstretched hand.

“So what's your business here?” McFain snapped.

Flye darted a look at the rear side of the young woman. She'd looked fine in the newspaper picture. Looked even better in the flesh. “Well, I'm a real admirer of Professor Silver's fine work.”
Not to mention his daughter.

The old man's eyes brightened behind his thick spectacles. “Really? You have an interest then in …”

Flye's head bobbed in an eager nod. “Oh yes sir. I know all about them bones you dug up in Wyomin'.” It had been painful, but he'd read the scholarly paper three times last night, made laborious penciled notes, and prayed his memory wouldn't fail him. “The Double-Bar-W Ranch. Three mammoths, one of 'em a young 'un. Well sir, that musta really been somethin'. Too bad none of them skeletons showed evidence of butcherin'.”

“No,” Moses said wistfully. “Though the bones were dated at some eleven thousand years before present. A time when humans walked upon this continent… and slew the mammoths. So I had hoped to uncover evidence of a human kill site.” The old man sighed as one who had spent years searching for a lost love and not found her. “But it was not to be.”

“All the same,” Horace said, “I expect it was still a good dig.” Good dig. This was an expression he'd picked up in a
New Scientist
magazine article at the library. One about a pygmy mastodon find in Egypt.

“Yes,” Moses said, “it was that.” He was sure he had this
fellow pegged. A passing tourist. The kind that has a passion for all things ancient. Probably has a collection of flint projectile points, sundry limestone fossils, and whitened Civil War minié balls. “And your interest in paleontology… is it of a professional nature?”

Horace Flye—now committed to the game—plunged ahead fearlessly. “Well, I'm kinda what you might call a professional… uhh… excavator. I've moved a lot of dirt in my time.”

The old man's bushy brows raised a millimeter. “Oh. And who have you worked with?”

Horace had memorized everything in the obituary he'd read at the library. “D'you know Oscar Humboldt?”

“Well of course, Oscar was—”

It was necessary to interrupt. “Well, me and old Oscar, why, we're just like this.” Flye held two fingers together to demonstrate the intimacy of their relationship. “I worked for him over in Tennessee. Where he dug up all them big masterdon bones in that road cut by the Cumberland River. Hot as blue blazes it was, but I enjoy a good day's work.” To demonstrate his fitness, he flexed a small biceps under his shirtsleeve.

Moses was bemused. “So. You worked with Oscar.” This fellow didn't seem the type. Oscar Humboldt, like most paleontologists, had generally used grad students in his digs. Back in the days when they were the academic equivalent of slave labor.

“Sure did. Half a dozen times. Why, I could tell you such stories …”

“Yes, I'm sure.” Moses tilted his head and squinted at the fresh bandage on the man's ear. “You seem to have injured yourself.”

Delia had quietly left her work among the fossilized bones. She was at her father's side, listening intently to the conversation. This stranger was at least ten years older than she. Uneducated, certainly. And kind of rough around the edges. But not all that bad-looking. And he was interested in her.

Horace rubbed at the bandage and grimaced. “About a week ago—up by Chilliwack Lake—that's in Canada—I had a little scuffle with a black bear. It was troublin' some little Girl Scouts in their camp.”

Nathan McFain grinned at the liar with grudging admiration.

Moses Silver's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

The young woman's eyes grew large. “My goodness—you could have been killed!”

“Shucks, ma'am—it was just a
little
bear.” He managed to look embarrassed. “'Twasn't all that much.”

Delia smiled sweetly at him. All men were liars, but this one was such a charming liar.

Encouraged, he held out his left hand so she could see the stub. “I lost that there middle finger in a tussle with a mountain lion. 'Twas down in New Mexico, in the Gila wilderness—four years ago last June. That cougar snuck up on me at night, when I was rolled up in my blanket. I guess it was my own fault. I shouldn't a let my campfire go out.”

“Yes,” she purred. “A man can't be too careful with big cats.”